


Dragon Age Origins Vignette 3: Final Battle

by maplemooh



Series: Dragon Age Origins: Mahariel's Journey [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Universe, Gen, Novella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maplemooh/pseuds/maplemooh
Summary: Mahariel faces the Archdemon during the final battle, and the aftermath for her companions.





	Dragon Age Origins Vignette 3: Final Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, thank you for reading. This is a part of a Novella made up of short stories, all taking place in the Dragon Age Origins timeline. This sticks closely to the canon of the game, no alternate universes or happy endings here (thanks BioWare).
> 
> This piece is the third one I wrote. When more are posted, I'll list the canonical timeline to read them in as well. Right now they're in order!
> 
> Thank you!

The daughter of Mahariel stood at the top of Fort Drakon, facing her greatest opponent: the Archdemon of the darkspawn horde. Herself and her companions had battled through the city, obliterating every soulless husk of a creature in their path, before ascending to where the hamstringed Archdemon had landed at the top of the tower. She was unsure of what happened to her fellow Warden, Riordan, but he was not here, and she was. There was a corrupted dragon to be slain.

She would not wait for his arrival.

She had left Alistair at the gate. After the Landsmeet, and after he had ended their relationship, she had made some decisions. First, she no longer cared if she lived or died, but only for the safety of Fereldan. Secondly, ensuring that safety meant ensuring there would be a king to rule after the Archdemon’s defeat. Thirdly, she decided that death held meaning. 

The death she stared in the face had meaning.

That was enough for the Dalish elf.

The dragon was stunning sight to behold, even in it’s battled state. It’s skin was corrupted, dripping with vile, and rot, and hate. It’s teeth were filthy with decay, it’s eyes clouded with the white of spores and fungus. It extruded evil, like an aura, and every time she had gotten near the beast, it was hard not to despair. When she had stepped away to use her bow, the feelings dissipated. It was a curious and fearsome beast.

Now, it was disoriented. Ichor oozed from it’s injuries, as it lay on the stone across from her. It was struggling to pick up it’s head, and Mahariel knew it was time. She couldn’t think. She’d put to rest what she needed to. Fereldan would be safe. Her clan would be safe. Alistair would be safe. Her friends would be safe. They’d all be safe and her death could have meaning. She was ready.

She was always ready.

Her breath caught as she started to run towards the beast, grabbing a sword stuck in the back of a fallen soldier as she passed by. Her face was a grimace of determination, and all she could hear was the thrum of her heart and the heave of her lungs. The dragon lifted it’s head, finally, belching a roar out, exposing the soft, fleshy neck.

As the Archdemon thrust its head forward clumsily to try and bite her, she dropped to her knees, skidding on the knee-coverings of her armour. As sparks flew from her knees, she thrust her sword up, tearing through the dragon’s throat, from jaw to the chest.

Thick, sticky blood poured out from the creature as it tossed its head in it’s death throes; the Warden was soaked, her muscles screaming as she disengaged her sword and pivoted back, out of the way of the dragon’s falling form. It’s neck flopped to the ground, butterflied by her blade, and the head landed with a sickening crunch.

She studied the creature for just a moment. It was so much like a corpse that had been buried, it’s skin thin and stretched out between bone and plate. The jaw was basically skeletal, as all the skin was pulled taught from the teeth, blackened with decay. The eyes – those eyes would haunt her. The dark colour gave in to the stink of decay. It was foul, corrupted, evil.

Her face broke. She was so angry – so angry at everything. Angry at Tamlen for touching that damn mirror, infecting them both with the darkspawn’s corruption. For Duncan, tearing her from her Clan. For Loghain at Ostagar. For Jowan at Redcliffe. Uldred at the Tower. Bhelen and Branka in Orzammar. Zathrian in her beloved forests. The Tevinter slavers in the Alienage. The Landsmeet and all the stupid human nobility. The fact that she had to play in shem politics and pick a ruler for Fereldan. And that choice cost her everything: her love and now her life.

She was so tired.

She swung the sword above her with a scream, and plunged it into the back of the Archdemon’s neck, shattering it’s spinal column.

The effect was immediate. The magic poured out from around her sword, and started to shoot upwards towards the sky, and spitting out from the cracks in the dragon’s skin like a waterfall of light. It wicked up her sword, curling around her arms and freezing her hands in place. She was blinded by the intensity of the magic, so bright in it’s golden glow as the soul of the dragon searched for the closest body with corrupted blood. The light flooded everyone on the tower in its glow: from the soldiers, the mages, the elven archers, the dwarves, and her companions.  
She struggled at first, the fire starting in her hands and feet. It engulfed her body quickly, the release of magicks licking up and down her body, alighting every synapse and neuron within her. She couldn’t see or scream or react, her body was pulsing with the destruction of souls, as the corrupted Archdemon tried to take over her body. She became aware of it; this dragon was Urthemiel, the dragon of Beauty. Her soul fought back, the two locked in a short, deadly battle. As the two souls tore each other asunder, her consciousness waned and her body, now only being controlled by the raw power of the dying souls, arched unnaturally. Her whole body took on the golden hue, light pouring out from every possible point of escape.

As the final pass of power came, it exploded from her, knocking her companions back and releasing her now lifeless body to the stone. The shockwave rattled the tower, with every living soul nearby seeing the discharge. 

And then, it was over.

*****

Leliana moaned gently as she started to be able to drink the world in again. Her senses were still buzzing from the shockwave of magical energy that just released from the Warden and Archdemon. The world spun in front of her burned eyes; even the dying light as the day shifted to night was too bright for her eyes.

She hadn’t expected the Warden to leave Alistair behind, even after everything that had happened between them. She was certain that her and Zevran would be the ones defending the gate, and all Wardens would be on hand to slay the legendary leader of the darkspawn horde. She was surprised when the Warden touched her arm, and motioned for her to come. Leliana had looked back on Alistair’s hurt face, but understood. She was keeping everyone safe.

The Bard looked death in the face with her best friend at her side, and she survived, thank the Maker. Minstrels would sing of this day.

She would write the song.

She lifted herself from prone to sitting, gingerly touching her forehead with the palm of her hand. Everything was still swimming. Her ears rung, but her vision was starting to sharpen. Wynne wasn’t far from her. Only moments ago they’d been glancing at each other while the Warden’s body was exploding with power and old, deep magicks. The old mage hadn’t recovered, she was still, but Leliana could see the rise and fall of her chest.

Her body screamed as she willed it to stand. She was hurt, but not dead, Maker be thanked. She needed to go, needed to see to her Warden. The morning had been so tumultuous, with the Warden coming to her as they marched. It was like she had resigned herself to death, asking her to sing over her corpse, if she should fall. That the song that Leliana had sung in camp was perfect, and one of the songs they sang during their Dalish funeral rituals.

The Bard was clever enough to know something was amiss during that time. She limped over to the heap that was a mix of the dead Warden and the mabari.

Of course the dog had survived. 

The dog growled at her as she approached the Dalish woman’s body. Leliana cooed to the animal softly, and the dog backed down, whining sadly as the woman knelt by the impossibly still Warden. She remarked how serene her face was now; shortly before the knockback, her face had been contorted. Obviously having your soul destroyed by another was quite the painful experience.

Leliana looked at her friend sorrowfully as she gently closed the Warden’s eyelids, and muttered a few soft words as she did. It was clear that those eyes would never see again. Leliana moved her hand to touch the Warden’s face gently. Her cheeks were still warm, but Leliana knew there was no life left inside them. She chided herself, as only a few minutes before, the heart was still beating. The flush would not fade that quickly. She sighed softly, still stroking the elvish cheeks. 

The Warden knew what she was doing, earlier on their march. She had been planning this. Leliana didn’t know whether to be angry or sorrowful, yet she braced herself, and did what she had been asked to do. To honour the elven woman in death if she should fall:

hahren na melana sahlin  
emma ir abelas  
souver'inan isala hamin  
vhenan him dor'felas  
in uthenera na revas

vir sulahn'nehn  
vir dirthera  
vir samahl la numin  
vir 'lath sa'vunin'

Wynne had barely roused herself enough to hear the end of Leliana’s song. The mabari’s soft woofing brought the old woman’s vision and hearing more into focus; She could see the two near the dead archdemon. Wynne was secretly thankful that she did not have to bear this burden alone: she had Leliana with her.

She grunted as she brought herself up to standing. She tapped into her connection to magic, and sent a healing wave out from her body, and heard the relieved groans of the men on the tower with her. She moved, somewhat stiffly – curse her old bones, towards the Warden.

Unlike herself and Leliana, the Dalish woman hadn’t been knocked back. Instead, she was crumpled beside the archdemon’s head, just an arm’s length from the sword used to sever it’s spine. The dog laid between the Warden and the archdemon, regarding its dead owner. Wynne approached slowly, a bit in fear of what she would see, and a bit because the corpse of the archdemon was steaming and even in death, it was formidable.

She wrapped her arms around Leliana in an embrace, stroking the younger woman’s hair as she started to cry. Wynne held her there a few moments, letting her release the emotions from the song.

While she comforted the Bard, Wynne looked down at the crumpled body of the Warden. She looked so serene, so peaceful, like she was asleep. Wynne knew better, as the smaller woman was still, far too still, to have life running through her. The mage’s connection to the healing arts let her know nothing was left, and this body was now just a shell, discarded as the essence moved on from this world to another.

She couldn’t help but check – Wynne did have a spell that could bring a soul back to the body, as long as death had not occurred long ago. Leliana stepped back from her, wiping her eyes. Wynne felt the magic surge through her and she asked the soul to come back to the Warden’s body. Normally she got an answer, a yes or no of some kind, a feeling almost – but no answer came. It was hollow, and there was simply…nothing. It chilled her.

The mabari woofed softly at Wynne. She scratched his ears absentmindedly.

She looked at Mahariel sorrowfully. This was not how any of them had wanted it to end. She knew the rest of their party would be coming soon; surely Alistair would be leading the charge the moment the battle had ended. She didn’t have time yet to fully mourn the loss of someone who had become almost like a daughter to her, whom she loved so much. She had to carry that pain a bit more before she could put it down and feel it.

“Wynne? What…what has happened?”

She turned to First Enchanter Irving, who had made his way from the lower ramparts up to the part of tower they’d made their stand on – a ballista platform, raised up over the rest of the roof. She could see the men gathered on the lower parts of the terrace, starting to realize that they’d won. Cries of joy were starting to ring out.

Not Irving though. His face was ashen, and full of concern. He knew of sacrifice.

Wynne shook her head slowly. “She…did not survive, Irving. It was necessary to stop the Archdemon.”

He did not look surprised, but deflated and definitely sorrowful. “Ah. I was afraid that this would be the case. Come,” he motioned to Wynne and Leliana, “Let us tell the leaders of her army. You two do not have to bear this alone.” He took Wynne’s hand, and together they walked down the stairs from the upper tower terrace, towards a small gathering: Arl Eamon, Kardol of the Legion of the Dead, and the generals from Orzammar, the Dalish, and the Dererim soldiers.

Leliana stayed with the Warden. She couldn’t just…leave her. Not yet. She sat down, with the mabari, her hand on the Warden’s arm.

While the men celebrated, clapping each other on the back and cheering, raising their swords and bows – Wynne took on the task of informing the leaders of the Warden’s sacrifice. They bowed their heads in loss. 

The old mage’s heart caught in her throat when the cheers on the roof began to change: the heroes had begun to arrive. The men were cheering for their new King, who was just arriving on the roof, and their traveling companions spilling out behind him as he looked around, frantically. All of them were bloodied, and grim; even Sten’s expression was more…sour than normal. Wynne excused herself and started to move toward the party. She was not looking forward to this, but this was her duty. The Warden had done so much, and this was such a small task to ask of Wynne. Alistair spotted her, calling out to her as they moved toward each other.

When they met, Alistair grabbed her in a hug, slightly crushing her against his armour, “Wynne! Thank the Maker, you’re alright.” He pulled away from her, grasping her shoulders, “Where is she?” He couldn’t keep the concern out of his voice.

“Alistair…” Wynne didn’t know how to begin, but he cut her off in her hesitation.

“Wynne, where is she? Is she alright? I need to see her. Where is she?” He was very serious, leaning his head down slightly and desperately trying to meet her eyes.

Wynne couldn’t do it, she couldn’t meet his gaze and tell him the woman he loved was gone. She’d been there, after the Landsmeet, when Alistair had ended the relationship. In true fashion to her ways, the Warden had not taken this news lightly, and had sucker-punched Alistair in the nose, breaking it before storming out. Wynne had set the bone and healed it, but had decided to let him keep the resulting double black eyes, which had only just faded. Wynne had felt he deserved it.

She had known that he didn’t stop loving the Dalish woman. He had tried to do what he thought was right for Fereldan, even if it shattered everything that had brought him joy over the last year of them traveling together. Wynne had watched the two, and had seen the way Alistair had looked at her, both before and after the Landsmeet – he adored her, simply and honestly. Not because she was an exceptional Warden, or leader, or skilled in her roguish training; nor because of her race, her skin colour, or her stature, but for herself. Her personality, her attitude, and her outlook. Her kindness.

For a Dalish elf, she had been particularly kind to the world which had treated her often with hatred and contempt.

Alistair jostled her, just a little. She shook out of her thoughts, and looked at him. Concern etched his face. “Wynne. Please. I need…I need to see her.”

The rest of the party gathered behind him. They all looked much like he did.

Wynne set her mouth in a thin line. “Come with me,” she said, sadly and quietly, breaking away from Alistair’s grasp, and turning towards the stairs of the ballista platform. The party slowly followed her, and even with the roar of happy soldiers, the rooftop seemed eerily quiet.

There was an audible gasp from her companions when the archdemon came into view. Sten was silent, Zevran remarked on it’s fearsome appearance in death, Shale it was smaller than she expected. They went up the stairs slowly, and it was Alistair who rushed ahead the moment he laid eyes on Leliana and his fellow Warden.

Wynne put up her hand, signalling to the party to hang back, letting Alistair approach the Warden and Leliana on his own. He knelt beside her, jaw stiff, taking off his gloves and laying them to the side gently, before using a shaking hand to caress her cheek. Oh Maker, what had he done? The consequences of his decisions shattered him, as he gazed on the woman he loved so much, whom he would not see again. He marveled though, at just how pristine she was; it was like her body wasn’t touched at all by the battle, whereas he could see in his peripheral that the dragon was in ribbons. All his beloved’s handiwork, he figured.

Even in death, she amazed him.

He’d never stare into her beautiful blue eyes again. He’d loved her eyes since the moment they met in Ostagar. They were as blue as the sky and as deep as the ocean, and quite round on her slim, elven face. Most unusual for her race indeed, he had noticed, and combined with her tattoos, had made her all the more beautiful to him. Maker’s breath, she was as beautiful in her death as she was in life.

He finally seemed to notice Leliana sitting by the mabari, and he looked at her desperately, unable to catch his breath in his grief. He was slipping, he was losing his hold on the reality of the situation. He was sick and he was dizzy and more than anything, he wanted her back.

He held Leliana’s gaze for a moment longer, before turning to Wynne, “Bring her back,” he stated, his voice trembling.

“I…I can’t,” the mage stuttered.

His sorrow turned to rage immediately, pulling himself to his full height, and was towering over Wynne before he knew it, breathing heavily. In his full plate – well, save for gloves – he was an intimidating presence over the elder enchanter.

“Bring her back!” he barked, and this time it was a command. “I’ve seen you do it, you’ve done it before,” he was yelling now, and was so focused on Wynne that he didn’t see Leliana rise from where she was and Zevran move towards them. His face was rumpled in anger, his whole body shaking.

“Alistair,” Wynne’s voice was so soft, that through his anger he had to listen to hear her, “Don’t you think I’ve already tried?”

The anger dissolved from Alistair’s face, and he felt everything drain away from him. Leliana touched his arm, “This way, my dear, come with us,” she said, and Alistair let her lead him, with Zevran on the other side for support, a few feet away so he could recover himself, while the rest of their companions were able to say their goodbyes to the daughter of Mahariel.

“I’ve sung for her, Alistair. She asked me…” Leliana choked as Alistair looked at her, sorrow etched into his face, his eyes dull and wet, “She asked me, during the march, to sing for her if this happened. And,” she breathed, “I prayed.”

Alistair could see Leliana breaking as well: he knew that Leliana had really been her confidant, as well as Zevran. The Bard’s eyes were puffy and her face we streaked with tears and blood. His voice cracked when he spoke, quietly, “Thank the Maker for you. Thank you for being by her side when…” he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing, “When I could not. Could you…please, could you sing it…” he couldn’t finish his sentence.

Leliana took his hands, holding them. She couldn’t look at him, while her heart was shattering. She inhaled, and sang for her King, this time soft and low, for the both of them who had loved and lost the Warden. 

He hugged her tight when her song finished, and she asked if she could have some time to say goodbye properly. Alistair nodded, and Zevran moved in, placing a hand on the King’s shoulder.

Leliana took her turn, saying a few sweet words to a woman who had become one of her closest friends. She still recalled her pleasant surprise when, during one of her stories about Orlais, that the Dalish elf had moaned about how much she liked shoes. She’d never worn anything but boots, but had heard stories of fancy humans and their odd footwear. A Dalish who secretly longed for pretty shoes! It was then Leliana realized that there was so much more to this elf than what she thought, and had thoroughly enjoyed her company. She had wished there could have been more between them – how lucky Alistair had been, bedding her. She would miss their time together – laughing as they discussed Alistair’s prowess, or gossiping about what scandalous things Zevran had gotten up to in Antiva, or helping each other out of their armour to bathe in the river. She had found true friendship, and as quickly as it came, it left.

She recalled the frantic march to Denerim, where the Warden had come up beside her. They spoke softly, and the Warden let her know what had transpired between her and Morrigan. The Warden let her know what she had decided after the Landsmeet: that it was her responsibility to keep Fereldan safe, and that it might result in the unthinkable...

Leliana cradled the Warden’s face in her hands.

Leliana knew the song. It was a song she had sung before, and the Warden explained the songs sung during Dalish funerals. Though the Warden admitted that she no longer felt attached to her clan, she would like to have one thing done for her, which was to be sung over on her journey through the Veil to the Fade.

And so Leliana had done this last wish for the woman she adored more than she thought she could. She pressed two fingers to her lips, then touched the Warden’s.

Zevran was glad when Leliana came back – he was not accustomed to comforting Alistair. The Warden had always managed Alistair; Zevran knew very well the to-be King did not trust him and fully expected the Antivan to stab them all in the back. Though he would have eaten sweets off Alistair’s naked body – in full disclosure, he would fancy eating sweets off of anyone’s nude body except for perhaps Shale, though…to be able to say you ate sweets off a golem would be some sort of kink somewhere – this was not in Zevran’s job description. Alistair was also very tall, and Zevran…well…he was not. How did the Warden manage it? She wasn’t much taller than he, how did everything fit?

Zevran shook such thoughts out of his head as he took his time with his Warden. He’d considered her as his for quite some time, even though her heart was Alistair’s. Zevran and the Warden had been close in so many other ways. Both slightly perverse. Both elven. And they both enjoyed pointing out attractive men, or women for that matter, in whichever city they were visiting. He’d been invited to her tent, and given her plenty of massages on their travels; and he respected her faithfulness to the human she decided to bond with. He worshipped her in different ways, but mostly for giving him a sense of new life when all he wanted was to die.

He would never forget their nights on guard together, usually sitting in trees, taking the piss and laughing. When she would rest her head on his shoulder. She’d loved him, and he back, in their way. He would miss her terribly.

Alistair had somewhat regained his composure by the time Zevran was done. He was quite numb, but was able to gather from Wynne, who’d come over, that his beloved had indeed been a hero, cutting the Archdemon into shreds quite handily. She had been ferocious. And she hadn’t hesitated when it came time to do what needed to be done.  
That sounded like his beloved.

When Zevran returned to his side, Alistair turned. There was so much to be done, and he no longer had his most trusted confidant to lead him. He made sure everyone had said good bye. He requested Arl Eamon, and as the older man approached, he paused slightly as he passed the Warden’s crumpled body. Alistair told him that the dragon was to stay here for now; it was needed for official Warden business. He asked Eamon to quiet the men, to pay their respects as she would be passing them by shortly and to send for the clerics. They would have to prepare their Hero for her funeral. And finally, he asked that someone be sent to find her clan; he had something for them.

He dismissed Eamon, then moved over to the Hero of Fereldan. He wished it was different. With all his heart he wished it was different. He picked up his gloves, sliding them on, one by one. Kneeling, he scooped his arms around the Hero’s body; the mabari woofed at him and whined, but fell in beside him. He was surprised at the weight when he hefted her up. Wardens and their appetites, he bemused to himself.

Her body curled into his. She was a good head shorter than he was, and she’s always fit so right within his arms. He wished he could feel her through his plate, but all he could feel was the pressure and weight of her. He’d have some time with her, while the clerics did their work. He could say everything he needed to say then, all the things he couldn’t say in front of their friends. But for now, he whispered to her:

“Rest now, my love. Maker keep you safe.”

He turned to Leliana, “Please. Sing.”

He carried her, the Hero of Fereldan, daughter of Mahariel, down the stairs from the Ballista platform, her mabari at his side. The leaders knelt in respect, the army followed after. The Hero’s wake of companions trailed the King and their Hero. Alistair carried her down the steps and through the halls, never tiring though his arms began to ache. Those who saw the procession knelt in respect: the warriors left in the city, Shianni and the city elves, the commoners all peeking out of their houses and shops, as they walked to the palace. Every now and then, a raven croaked.

Leliana’s voice never faltered.

He would not let Fereldan forget the sacrifice done that day.


End file.
